Tired and sick. Three poems to write before Monday, 3000 words due next week. 800 to 1000 words, when is it due? What is the name of that competition? My poor head! It's my grandson's birthday, and I promised curtains. I have no time to be ill.
I take a deep breath, a hot cuppa and slowly a timetable appears. Curtains and poems, story plans and tissues, bed and my favorite pen. Tablets and blanket, a cuddle with the cats, all's right with the world. Still there's something missing. Oh God, it's Friday.